Not Myself
by KarotsaMused
Summary: Hakkai muses on growing into himself, as well as growing around Gojyo. Pre-series.


A/N: Disclaimer: Twinkle twinkle, little Sai...yuki's not mine; that makes me cry. Welcome to another bout of trying-to-get-rid-of-my-block. It's really bothering me, so I apologize for not updating Blackjack. I'm just having a tough time with it right now - I want to keep the melodrama to a minimum. Nyarrgh.

However, for those of you who have no idea what that was about, no fear! This, like "Haircut" is set in the Post-Hakkai pre-Saiyuki days where Gojyo and Hakkai are living together, feeling one another out. It's not really a continuation or even meant to be read in conjunction with "Haircut" - it's just the time period I chose. This is, I guess, a songfic. The lyrics written like this are from John Mayer's "Not Myself." I just kind of expounded on each line as it came - lucky for you it's a very concise set of lyrics.

Warnings: Uh...none? This is pretty gentle stuff. It's from Hakkai's point of view, right there behind his eyes...and I guess there are some hints of Gojyo's behavior and his appreciation of Hakkai's looks, but that's really it.  
If you've survived all of that, I'm proud of you. Enjoy

Edit: So effeffdotnet says song lyrics are bad. That's okay, y'all just have to go listen to John Mayer now. Haha.

* * *

I do not exist. If I do not exist, no one can come to harm. This politeness, this unobtrusive, subservient manner makes me safe. I love being safe. Safe to everybody who walks past so they don't know. Nobody would believe what is on my hands. Nobody would believe what I am capable of, what I have inside me. The girls think my earrings are cute. I can spend the rest of my time humbling myself, pushing away the past until nobody knows it but me. And him. I'm safe for him, so we can hold a conversation. Funny thing, he doesn't seem to care. 

I care about him caring. Is that grammatically correct? I don't want him to accept me because that could hurt him. I don't want to hurt him. I'm obligated to him, because he supposedly 'saved' this wretched life of mine without my consent. He leaves every day and I'm surprised sometimes that he comes back at night. I worry. I'm capable of worrying over him. I should hate him. He doesn't deserve it, but I should hate him. It worries me that I don't. I'm capable of worrying over him. I want him to come back safe, so I don't have to return the favor to him. I want him to come back.

I wonder if he'd have liked the schoolteacher beaten and bleeding inside me. I wonder if he'd have found something worth keeping in him. If somehow it would be easier for us. As if somehow we might have met. As if he'd have paid me any attention at all.

I used to hate having his eyes on me. Capturing his attentions, knowing he'd seen me when I was unconscious and vulnerable. Knowing he's held my guts in his hands. Knowing he had to touch me. Wondering if he wanted to. I used to hate his scrutiny of a face I shouldn't be recognizing, the stigma heavy on everything but. He watched me become functional around who I am. I used to hate that his smiles were so honest.

He is bloody and comfortable with it. His eyes on me are so red. When I close my eyes I see green, the soft opposite. And I realize how much I miss her. How stupid I was. How stupid I am. I would have been content to die, so her memory wouldn't haunt me every time I close my eyes. So I wouldn't hate the rain. So I don't have to let him watch me move.

He's seen my body. He's heard my words in my sleep. He's watched me on rainy days. He doesn't ask me to explain anything, but touches me with his hands. Or just his eyes. He'll be in the room. Thousands of nights he's gone but he's always home when it rains. When did I begin to call it 'home?' He's always home when it rains, since the first time he saw me lose myself. He touched me and I jumped and he made me relax into him. I should have had something private. He forces it not to be. Anything else, but not the rain. He's always with me when it rains.

Despite that, I know he's curious. He won't say anything unless I let something out first. Unless I want to talk, or sometimes because he guilts me into it. He doesn't know he does it. But I can't help myself. He's not patient or subtle, but straightforward in what he wants. I don't want to give him that. I don't want anybody to know. Not anybody but Sanzo, because he had to. Because I can't come to terms with myself yet, can't look my reflection in the eye. I can't expect him to understand. But he wants to know.

I test what little patience he has. I wonder why he keeps me. I keep the house clean. I cook. I make him laugh. I indulge him. I can't help wanting to please him. His smiles are so honest. I wonder why I stay. He watches me, like he somehow approves. Of course, I know his modus operandi. I know where he goes those nights I'm alone. Who he's with. How, once in a blue moon, they're not pretty girls. Word gets around, and I'm the one who does the shopping. But I can't apply that school of thought to myself. I shrivel under his blatant looks and back away from his hands.

I like his hands, though. I like the feel of them on me, the heavy reminders of 'okay.' His eyes remind me of what I've done. My pain reminds me that I am alive. But his hands remind me of the now. He keeps me in the present when I've got to pay attention to him, to worry about him. When I've got to care for him, I've got to care for myself. I can't let him run himself into the ground. Can't let anybody else see the state he was in when he found me. Why do I care so much about him?

If he were blonde. If he were gentle. If he were patient. If he could understand. If he wasn't so...Gojyo. None of this would ever work.


End file.
